She was born after me, but when I met her, she was old, and ugly. It wasn’t love at first sight. When Dad brought her home, I thought he had lost his mind. She was a 1952, four-door, Plymouth sedan. We would eventually accept each other and have a wonderful, loving relationship. She was to be my first car, my first love.

To my total revulsion, she was painted light green. I called it “dragon snot green.” To seal my aversion, she was standard shift. I was the first generation to train with the automatic transmission, which left me free to focus on not hitting stuff, while not being distracted by such decisions as, “should I shift now?”

I was ashamed to be seen in the old, ugly, green thing. She was our family’s second car, and I was content to let her live out her, hopefully, short days in that role.

The first string car was no beauty. It was a ’58 Chevy (so far, so good) Nomad (oh no) STATION WAGON. How un-cool in the days of cool was that?

The only thing keeping it from being uglier than the Plymouth was that it was two-tone, white over blue, and newer.

It couldn’t have screamed, “I’m middle-class, conservative,” any louder without a PA system ala “Blues Brothers.” It was safe because it was the size of a Navy destroyer, and it was automatic, therefore I could drive it. There was no other option until one fateful day.

It was a Saturday. Chores were done and I wanted to go to a friend’s house to “hang out” which meant “go cruising”. Dad said, “No.” “No” never meant “no,” ask again . . . “No,” with emphasis. Third time… “No,” shouted. Now it meant “No.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do, stay in the house all day?” As if he cared if I ever left my room again.

He smirked at me, “Take the Plymouth.” He delighted in this. I had been a dismal failure at mastering clutch, and gas, much less shift. I had never gotten it to roll twenty feet without killing it.

“I can take the Plymouth?”

He saw the gleam in my eye, and I saw fear in his. He dropped the gauntlet I picked it up. “Yeah, if you can make it around the block, and then take me around, you can take it.”

I had him! With determination, I took the keys off the hook, walked out to the now-not-so-ugly Plymouth, got in, started the engine, depressed the clutch, eased it out until the car moved, applied the gas, rolled down the street, shifted, and never looked back. The Plymouth wanted to cruise, and we were lovers.

She was now “my car”, Betsy by name, and Heaven help you if you called her ugly. I later bought her for $500 dollars, but not before I had spent more than that on essentials. Things like a chrome gear shift ball, Baby Moon hubcaps, red lights for the interior, a red garter for the rear-view mirror, and at least one set of tires, a new clutch, brakes, all worn trying to drag race with its flat head, six-cylinder engine. Yep, Betsy and I were in love. She’s a big part of what I am. Explains a few things, doesn’t it?